In it, Doyle could see the intensity on Sasha’s face as she swept charcoal over the sketchbook.

Bran glanced down, angled his head. “You’ll want some pants,” he called out. “It appears we’ll start the day with visions.”

“I’ll wake the others.”

He dressed quickly and, considering the start of the day, grabbed his sword before going on. He knocked briskly on Riley’s door, remembered the sun had yet to rise—any moment now—and just shoved the door open.

The wolf stood in front of a fire gone to embers, quivering. And let out a low, warning growl.

“Save it,” Doyle snapped. “It’s Sasha. No, she’s fine,” he added as the wolf poised to spring out of the room. “She’s painting. Bran’s with her. She—”

He broke off as the wolf threw back her head, let out a long moan. The eyes stayed fierce, locked on his, anger striking out. But under it was a helplessness that had him stepping back. Though he considered witnessing the transformation fascinating, he closed the door, gave her privacy.

He heard the howl, pain and triumph, as he hurried away to wake the others.

CHAPTER SIX

As he saw no point in waiting for the others, Doyle went straight into the master suite in the tower. It opened into a gracious sitting room where the doors stood open to the sea terrace.

Bran glanced back at him.

“She woke—or came out of sleep—only a few minutes before you stepped outside. She said she needed her easel. I barely managed to get the shirt on her—it’s so cool—before she was coming down here and starting.”

He gestured Doyle closer, then to a table on the terrace. “She’s done those already.”

Doyle studied the charcoal sketches in the backwash of light. Another of Arianrhod, this in warrior garb, a sword at her side. The others would be Celene and Luna. One a dark beauty, also dressed for battle, holding a bow, the other lovely as sunrise, a dove on her shoulder, a sword in her hand.

He saw something of his sisters—the oldest and the baby—in the dark one, felt that old, hard twist. And his lost brother in the other, so sweet of face, kind of eye.

Projecting, he told himself. Projecting as his family’s stones projected from the ground. He stepped back as he heard Sawyer and Annika come in.

“Has she said anything?” Sawyer, his hair still tousled from sleep, moved in to look over Sasha’s shoulder.

“She’s deep in the drawing,” Bran told him, “as you can see.”

With Annika, Sawyer turned to the table.

“Oh!” Annika clasped her hands together. “It’s my mother. I mean, it’s my mother as this is Doyle’s. This is how my mother looks.”

“Some mother,” Sawyer noted. “You look like the other one.”

“I do?”

“The eyes. You have the same eyes as the blond one. And, I’ve got to say, the blonde looks a lot like my grandmother—or photos I’ve seen of her when she was young. She was hot.”

“Then your granny and my mother are twins,” Riley said from behind Sawyer. “I’d say my theory’s been as confirmed as it can be. Each one of us—because when Sasha’s finished, one of these will ring for her—came from one of them.”

“I think it’s more.”

Riley glanced at Doyle. “More what?”

“This could be a drawing of two of my sisters—not as exact as the Arianrhod to my mother, to Bran’s grandmother, but it’s striking. And this? The one who rings, as you call it, for you and Sawyer? My brother Feilim.”

“Interesting. I say we take a close look, in better light, when Sasha’s done.” So saying, Riley picked up one of the sketches. “And see if there’s more crossover.”

“What?” Sawyer scratched his head. “We’re all cousins?”

“Considering it’s been maybe a millennium since this family tree took root? Yeah, I’m going with the crossover.”

“This is so nice.” Annika hugged Riley, then Doyle. “We’re even more family now.”

“We are of the blood.” Sasha spoke as in the east the sky bloomed with light. “Conceived and born on the Island of Glass, suckled and nurtured by the mothers, by the gods, and sent from one world to another. Conceived with the stars, born with the moon, gifted and given. Wherever taken by the winds of fate, brought together, blood of the blood, a millennium plus two since the fall.

“The star waits, the Ice Star, frozen in time and place. Its day comes when the worlds still for five beats of a heart. Fire to see, water to feel, ice to fight, to take their place when the Tree of All Life blooms once more.”

Drenched in visions, Sasha lifted her hand to the eastern sky. “And she waits, weak and cold, tended by her creature. She waits and gathers powers dark to strike at the heart, the mind, the body. This world will quake from her wrath. Seek the past, open the heart.”

Now she lowered that hand, pressed it to her own heart. “Follow its path. Its light is your light. It waits. Worlds wait. She waits. Reach into yesterday, and bring them home.”

Sasha lowered her arms, swayed. “I’m okay,” she said when Bran put his arms around her. “But I could sit down for a minute.”

“You’re cold. Damn it. Inside with you. Annika, there’s water in the wet bar over there.”

“Wet bar?”

“I’ve got it.” Riley dashed inside, pulled open the small cooler in back of the angled bar while Bran half carried Sasha to a chair in front of the fire he set blazing.